His Mistletoe Bride Page 36

  “I am sorry if this is unpleasant news,” she said miserably. Her throat ached so badly it was a wonder she could even speak.

  He blinked, obviously startled. “No. It’s not that. I’m . . .”

  “Surprised?”

  “You might say that.” He rose to his feet and quietly stared down at her. “Does Blackmore believe you’re healthy enough to bear children?”

  She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “He said there is no need to worry. He also said he would be happy to answer any questions we might have.”

  “Good. That’s good. We’re fortunate he was here, and that he thinks everything is . . . good.” He winced and clamped his lips shut, obviously aware he was starting to babble.

  With a sigh, Phoebe came to her feet. “I apologize if this is a shock. It was not how I intended you to find out. I realize it might seem another complication in our lives, but—”

  “Where the devil would you get an idea like that?” he exclaimed, scowling at her.

  Startled, she took a step back. “Because you—”

  A knock sounded on the door, and then it opened. Cousin Stephen strode into the room, took one look at them, and came up short. “Forgive me for interrupting. I had a question for you, Lucas, but I will speak to you later.”

  “You are not interrupting, Cousin,” Phoebe said with relief. “I must go upstairs to change.”

  Lucas muttered a very shocking word, which brought a hot blush to her cheeks and had Silverton throwing a sharp glance his way.

  “Phoebe, we need to finish this,” Lucas said in a low voice.

  “Later,” she said, slipping past him. “The guests will be here soon, and I must still visit the kitchens.”

  “No, wait,” he growled.

  She ignored him, fleeing the room as if a pack of hounds were snapping at her heels.

  Chapter 36

  Phoebe had barely managed to force down two bites of the lavish meal served to their guests. Her queasiness had returned—probably more a result of her conversation with Lucas than from the state of her health. She had barely spoken to him since their ill-fated conversation. Racing to dress, she had hurried down to the kitchen to check on the last minute preparations for dinner. The servants regarded her as more hindrance than help, but she could not bear another private conversation with her husband. Her emotions were too unsettled, and she feared bursting into tears at the slightest provocation from him. That would do neither of them, nor the baby, any good.

  Her hand stole to the flat of her stomach, settling over the spot where she imagined her child to be growing. No matter what Lucas thought right now, their baby was a miracle. She could only pray that with God’s grace and a great deal of patience on her part, admittedly not her strong suit, her stubborn husband would come to welcome the child. If not, life at the manor would be dreary indeed. Bad enough to have a husband who could not love his wife, far worse to have a father who could not love his own children.

  The sound of high-pitched giggles and shrieks brought her attention back to the hall. The villagers had arrived some time ago, and the festivities and games were in full swing. The servants had pushed back the tables in the dining room to allow for dancing, and the hall had been given over to games. Blind-man’s Bluff was in full swing and seemed mostly an excuse for the boys to chase the girls, or to raise a ruckus by tripping over the furniture. The rafters rang with joyous pandemonium, and everywhere Phoebe looked she saw smiling faces and heard eager voices in cheerful conversation. Whatever else might come of this Twelfth Night, it would appear that Lord and Lady Merritt had provided their people a much-needed respite from their daily cares.

  She nodded to Mr. Christmas, who bowed and disappeared behind the door below stairs. Then she stretched up on tiptoe to look for her husband, only to feel a big hand settle low on her back.

  “I hope it’s me you’re looking for.”

  She blew out an exasperated breath. “Lucas, you really must stop sneaking up on me. You gave me a terrible start.”

  His arched a brow. “I would never be so undignified as to sneak. In any case, I could march a regiment up behind you and you couldn’t hear it over this din.”

  She grimaced. “It is rather loud, is it not? I am sorry if you find it annoying, but it seems the guests are enjoying themselves.”

  He took her hand and twined their fingers. “You think I’m an ogre, don’t you? Poor Phoebe. Stuck with a beast for a husband.”

  She looked down at their clasped hands. “No,” she whispered. “I do not think that at all.”

  He bent low, his thick, silky hair brushing her cheek. “What’s that, love? I didn’t hear you.”

  She turned as he lifted his head and stared directly into his eyes. The tenderness in his expression brought a little ball up into her throat. “I said, I do not think you are an ogre at all.”

  “Good, because I wanted to tell you—”

  She touched her fingers to his lips. “Not now. It is time for the King’s Cake and choosing the Lord of Misrule. We can speak later.”

  A flash of frustration crossed his features, but he nodded. She tugged his hand and they weaved their way through the crowd, heading for the dais. It took several minutes, as villagers wished them good cheer and warm thanks for the evening’s entertainment. Phoebe was too flustered to say more than a few words, but Lucas responded with easy charm, seeming to enjoy himself. When his hand settled once more low on her back, cradling her gently as they strolled, her tension eased.

  They reached the dais just as the door in the back of the hall swung open. Mr. Christmas emerged with great ceremony, two brawny footmen staggering behind him under the load of an enormous King’s Cake. The confectionary edifice was always the centerpiece of the Twelfth Night celebrations, and Mrs. Christmas claimed that Cook’s was the finest in the entire county.

  The cake’s thick icing gleamed with a brilliant white in the blaze of the candles, and whimsical sugar figurines dotted the polished, two-tiered surface. The round base was elaborately trimmed with sugar flowers in a rainbow of pretty pastels, while a credible representation of the village church and a few of the local shops topped the cake off.

  “Good Lord,” Lucas exclaimed. “Is that the village square on top of that monstrosity?”

  “Yes,” Phoebe said proudly. “It was Cook’s idea. She did a splendid job, do you not think?”

  Her husband laughed. “Actually, yes. It’s got everything but the village drunk.”

  “Really, Lucas,” she responded primly. “Come along. It is time to take your seat on the Lord of Misrule’s throne.”

  He frowned. “Why do you think I’m going to be Lord of Misrule? That’s a damned big cake, and there’s only one little bean baked into it. Anyone could find it and be appointed lord.”

  She glanced over at Mrs. Christmas, who was cutting the first slice. “We decided to do things a bit differently this year. Given certain, ah, mishaps in the past, everyone will be handed slips of paper with their cake. He who receives the slip with the appropriate mark will be designated Lord of Misrule.”

  “Hmm. I suppose someone got drunk and almost choked on the bean one year.”

  She widened her eyes. “How did you know that?”

  “It’s a fairly frequent occurrence. It happened to Robert once, and he wasn’t even in his cups. Almost went to his grave because of the damn thing. He’s only still with us thanks to his grandfather. The General slapped him on the back so hard he nearly knocked the poor lad into the next room.”

  Phoebe had to laugh at the image. “Well, we want to avoid that sort of thing. Mrs. Christmas came up with the slips as a substitute.”

  “Yes, but that still doesn’t explain why you think I’ll—”

  Lucas broke off as Mrs. Christmas trundled toward them, carrying a plate. He directed a baleful look Phoebe’s way. “Tell me you are not doing this.”

  She gave him a beatific smile in response.

  He groaned. “On top of every
thing else, I must now be Lord of Misrule?”

  “I am afraid so.”

  Surprisingly, his mouth twitched into a smile. “Well, I suppose it does make a bizarre sort of sense, given how everything tends to go to hell in a handcart around here.”

  Mrs. Christmas handed Lucas his plate and slip of paper with a dramatic flourish. Lucas inspected the slip with great solemnity, then gave the housekeeper a courtly bow in return. The guests cheered and whistled.

  “Well, there’s one consolation,” he said, raising his voice over the din. “I get to pick you as my queen.”

  “I am afraid not,” Phoebe said with mock regret. “Look.”

  He followed her pointing finger to where Mrs. Christmas was bestowing a plate of cake on Mrs. Knaggs.

  Lucas gaped. “You’re not serious! The vicar’s wife as Queen of Misrule?”

  Phoebe struggled to maintain a straight face. “We thought Mrs. Knaggs would be the perfect choice to assist you in your kingly duties.”

  “Lecture me, you mean. She’s going to nag me about her pet projects all night.”

  She clucked her tongue sympathetically. “Poor Lucas. How awful for you.”

  He gave a grudging laugh. “You’re killing me, Madam Wife.”

  “Perhaps later. We do not want any dead bodies littering the hall.”

  He bit back whatever retort he was about to deliver as Mrs. Knaggs came sailing up. The good woman beamed her excitement at being chosen, and Phoebe was pleased to see Lucas welcome her up on the dais in a gracious manner.

  Once the king and queen were seated, the merriment resumed. Mrs. Christmas distributed the rest of the cake, and glasses of wassail and punch were replenished. As part of his duties, Lucas was called on to organize more games, and was kept busy supervising rounds of Forfeits. Eventually, a footman appeared with a large pewter bowl of brandied punch with raisins floating on top. He placed it on a table in the middle of the hall and set it aflame, prompting a rousing cheer from the spectators.

  “What is that for?” Phoebe asked as she leaned against the arm of Lucas’s throne.

  “It’s snapdragons. You try to snatch the raisins from the flaming punch without getting burned. It requires a quick eye and a steady hand.”

  And a great deal of merriment, by the looks of it, as the guests laughingly egged each other on. Phoebe had to admit it looked like fun, if a bit risky.

  “Perhaps I should try,” she said, starting to step down from the dais.

  Lucas’s hand shot out, gently pulling her back to his side. “No, sweetheart. No burns for you.”

  She stared down at him, caught by the affectionate expression in his eyes. His long fingers wrapped around her wrist, feeling rough and warm against her skin. She swallowed, her throat going dry. His simple touch made her tingle from head to toe.

  Instinctively, she started to lean into him. His eyes flared with heat and he tilted his head up, as if ready to take her kiss. And she almost did kiss him, completely forgetting where she was, until a gentle touch on her elbow jerked her back to awareness. “My lady, forgive the interruption.”

  Mr. Christmas had suddenly appeared by the dais, tense and alert as his gaze darted around the hall and then back to her.

  She frowned. “Is there a problem, Mr. Christmas?”

  “A small one, I’m afraid, my lady. In the kitchen.”

  “I will come right away.”

  As he nodded and disappeared, Phoebe turned to Lucas and made her excuses. Turning her hand over, he raised her palm to his mouth and gave it a lingering kiss that ended with a little bite.

  Goodness. She actually felt a bit faint, and she did not think it came from the heat of the room.

  “Don’t be long,” he murmured in a seductive voice.

  She nodded and scurried off, thoroughly confused. Even though Lucas had not reacted as she’d hoped to the news of her pregnancy, he did seem content tonight. For the first time in several days, she started to feel a glimmer of hope.

  Phoebe pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen, before stumbling to a shocked halt. Mr. Weston was seated at the large kitchen worktable, his coarse cotton shirt stained with blood. Little Sam stood behind him, white-faced with fear. She had noted their absence earlier in the evening, and had attributed it to Mr. Weston’s continuing reluctance to face her. That was obviously not the case.

  “Dear God! How did this happen?” she exclaimed.

  Mrs. Christmas yanked some towels from a cupboard, stomping over to Mr. Weston and pressing one against the wound to his upper arm. The man flinched and drew in a harsh breath. “The fool got himself shot by the excise men,” she snapped. “He and Sam barely escaped.”

  Phoebe took Sam gently by the shoulders. “Are you hurt?”

  The boy shook his head, obviously too frightened to speak. Phoebe cast a quick glance around the kitchen. Several maids and a few of the footmen watched closely in worried silence, but there was no one else.

  “Was anyone else involved?” Phoebe asked Mr. Weston.

  “Three others, my lady, but they took off into the woods. I’m fair certain they got clean away.” He drew in a hissing breath when Mrs. Christmas pressed even harder to staunch the blood.

  Phoebe felt sick. “So, you were running goods across Merritt lands again.”

  He raised a miserable gaze to her face. “Tonight was to be our last run, my lady. I swear it. The cargo had already been promised and half paid for. I didn’t have a choice.”

  “And what about Sam? Did you not have a choice when it came to your son’s safety?”

  Mr. Weston ducked his head, a glaze of shame coloring his cheeks. “Aye. Taking him was foolish. I won’t deny it.” He looked back up at her, eyes pleading. “But I’ll never put the boy in danger again, I swear. On my wife’s grave, I swear it.”

  Phoebe took a deep breath, willing her anger to subside. The damage was done. Now all she could do was try to contain it. “Mr. Christmas, please fetch Dr. Blackmore. Tell him one of the kitchen maids burned herself.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Mrs. Christmas, we will need hot water and more cloths, and send one of the girls up to Dr. Blackmore’s bedroom for his bag. And get Sam something hot to drink—some milk or hot chocolate. Oh, and someone give me a pair of scissors.”

  As the staff scrambled to carry out her instructions, Phoebe took the scissors from a maid and carefully cut away Mr. Weston’s sleeve. When the wound was fully exposed, raw and bleeding sluggishly, her gorge rose to her throat. She had to close her eyes and draw in a breath before her stomach settled.

  “You’re lucky, Ned Weston,” said Mrs. Christmas. “A clean shot, through and through.”

  “Doesn’t feel lucky,” he ground out.

  Dr. Blackmore hurried into the kitchen, frowning as he took in the commotion. “That doesn’t look like a burn to me,” he said.

  Phoebe ignored his dry comment. “Thank goodness. This is Mr. Weston, our local innkeeper. He has met with an, ah, accident.”

  “Apparently. I will need someone to fetch my bag.”

  “Here, sir,” gasped Maggie, breathless from her run up and down the back staircase.

  The doctor went to work, efficiently cleaning and bandaging the wound. Everyone else stood in tense silence, occasionally throwing worried glances at Phoebe.

  “That should do,” Dr. Blackmore finally said. “You’ll need to get the bandage changed every day for the next week, and you’ll also need a sling to keep the arm immobile.”

  Phoebe exhaled a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Doctor.” She glanced at the clock on a shelf by the pantry. “I must get back upstairs before I am missed.”

  The doctor stood. “I’ll take you up.” He smiled at Phoebe. “I assume you’ll want me to keep this quiet.”

  She hated to draw him into a fabrication, but her options were very limited. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  Phoebe was murmuring additional thanks when an awfu
l thought sucked the air from her lungs. “Mr. Weston,” she gasped. “Is there any chance the excise men might track you here?”

  The publican wet his lips. “I . . . it’s surely possible. They’ve done it before.”

  “Yes, I remember that occasion,” she said in a hollow voice. If the officers found Mr. Weston at Mistletoe Manor, they would arrest him. Sam, too.

  It took but a few seconds to reach a decision. “Mr. Christmas, find a fresh shirt and jacket for Mr. Weston. He and Sam must come up to the hall and act as if they have been here all evening.”

  Dr. Blackmore stopped packing up his case to frown at her. “Do you think that wise, Lady Merritt? Obstructing the law is a tricky business.”

  Sam clutched the back of his father’s chair so hard his fingers blanched white. “Please, my lady. Don’t let Pa be arrested. He’s all I got!”

  Phoebe gave him a reassuring smile. “I will not allow that to happen, Sam. I—”

  The door to the kitchen swung open. Lucas stopped cold as he entered, his gaze taking in the scene before him. His eyes grew hard as flint as they settled on Phoebe.

  “Well, what have we here?” he asked in a lethally soft voice.

  Chapter 37

  Phoebe’s stomach lurched, and she had to resist the impulse to grab the nearest basin.

  Lucas studied her for a moment before flicking his icy gaze to Mr. Weston, grim-faced and pale in his chair. “Is this little tableau the result of a smuggling run across my land, Weston?”

  The man looked ready to faint, but managed to come to his feet. “Aye, my lord, and I apologize for it. But as I told your lady, tonight was to be my last run.” He swallowed hard. “I’m giving it up, I swear it.”

  Sam moved to his father’s side. “It’s the truth, my lord. Honest. Pa promised me this would be the last.”

  The quaver in the boy’s voice closed a fist around Phoebe’s heart. She started forward to comfort him, but Lucas shot a hand out. “Stay right where you are, Phoebe.”

  “But, Lucas—”

  “And stay quiet,” he said through clenched teeth. “I need to think.”

  His tone made her bristle, but the situation would not be improved by an argument.